


Before All Begins Anew

by 21stCenturyHero



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gareth lives, M/M, Slow Burn, Travelogue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22092544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/21stCenturyHero/pseuds/21stCenturyHero
Summary: The journey from Northreach to Boldefall is a long one, but Therion doesn’t have to do it alone.
Relationships: Gareth/Therion (Octopath Traveler)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Northreach, after it’s all over

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Long Road Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15836163) by [VacuumTan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VacuumTan/pseuds/VacuumTan). 



> Hello everyone! As I'm visiting my family for the holidays, I'm not currently in the position to update Aeber's Piety. Enjoy something shorter in the meanwhile.

He fell.

Struggling to grasp his breath, he opened up his mouth and tried to scream, exhaling all the air that burned his lungs and finally breathing in the cold air of the north, soothing his aching body and mending his ailing mind. For there was no more fight to fight. No more chains to break. Now there was only his life, as little as that meant.

So the thief looked up while in his knees, looking up to the statue in the middle of the church, that of his Lord and Majesty, and he prayed.

Prayed to his Prince for a safe return; prayed for his Prince for his friends; and most of all, prayed for Gareth.

He wondered if Aeber could see him through those stone eyes, watching him on his journey ever since Ravus Manor, and now served as adjudicator; for he met the beginning of all things within this hall, and with his own hand, he defeated he who challenged reason.

Darius’ right eye was still stuck in his dagger after all, abandoned in some corner of the church.

It made his stomach churn.

He hated this. Hated being a puppet, be it Darius’ and or Cordelia’s. Hated those sick, twisted games played by these two, who would endanger the likes of him and Gareth. And most of all, hated Darius -- he finally found the words to say out loud, and he hated it, hated it, _hated it_.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to kill him, to keep chasing him, to continue this cycle of vengeance. He was done -- he let go, he broke free, and now all that remained was Cordelia, sitting in her gilded palace, waiting for him.

At least he hoped he managed to set Gareth free as well.

He couldn’t walk -- it was as if his legs wouldn’t sustain his weight -- so he dragged himself to the nearest bench through the rubble and snow, groaning every step of the way and oh, how the snowfall was beautiful at night, falling through the cracks in the ceiling and each snowflake glittering like stars under the moonlight, landing on the tip of his nose and making his entire body shiver.

He heard about how the entire north was covered in ice by the Jötunn once. In a night such as this, he wouldn’t mind be buried as well.

So Therion closed his eyes.

\---

“My friend, ‘tis time to wake up.”

His eyelids trembled awake, and morning had come, painting the sky with the same radiant colors as a field of morning glories. Shifting in his seat, he found himself covered by a thick purple cape that staved off the cold, a beautiful mantle made of wool and embroidered with a delicate hand, covered with snow.

And then, he saw the blood.

He screamed, sitting on the bench; the church was empty, save a pair of expectant eyes that when he found himself face to face with, he found out they were as blue as the sky.

“Gareth,” he said breathlessly, letting his fingers feel the fabric of the cloth; something about it warmed him inside, in a way it hadn’t before. “You…”

“Good morning, Therion,” he replied casually, with a soft smile on his face as he sat by Therion’s size, straightening the coat around his shoulders so the stained part would fall to the ground, out of sight, out of mind. “Your apothecary companion has been fussing up about your wellbeing, but I thought a long rest would be appreciated.”

“Are you hurt?” Therion asked no louder than a whisper, touching Gareth’s face as if he could make sure he was _alright:_ he seemed healthier than the last time they saw each other, his skin not as sickly anymore, but he sported a new scar on his temple, which made Therion’s sick of his stomach.

_Darius._

Gareth scoffed. “Are you aware of who I am? No, my friend. I’m afraid you are the one who took the brunt yesterday.”

“Yesterday…” Way too many things happened yesterday. Reaching Northreach. His fight on the square. His fight with Darius. But most importantly… “Why did you save me? From Darius’ men, I mean.”

Gareth’s eyebrows shot up, as if Therion was asking the obvious. Shaking his head, he left his eyes fall to the ground, and there was a small, triumfant grin on his face. “Isn’t it obvious? Because you saved me.”

 _“Live!”_ the thief recited proudly, and knowing exactly where that was going, Therion’s ears started to heat up. _“If you don’t want to die, live on! You’re allowed to!”_

Gareth let out a hearty shuckle, delighting himself in the memory. He looked back at Therion, and the smile on his face was something indescribable.

“Those were the words you said to me that day, in Wellspring,” the black haired man told him, getting up the bench, and then, silence. Therion opened his mouth to say… something, anything, but no sound came out -- and instead, Gareth laughed again. “Truth be told, I thought it was adorable _._ What are you, a character in a play? I mean, what type of thief doesn’t immediately collects his reward?”

 _The dragonstones,_ he thought, clenching his fists _._

But this wasn’t about them anymore, was it? This stupid fight, that was never about Therion, but he took it upon his own hands -- made it his, made it _his friends’_ \-- the instant he saw Darius, the instant he fought Gareth. This was no longer about the demands of a spoiled noble locked away in her shitty castle, but a battle for his own freedom, an attempt to do the right thing -- or the closest thing to it. 

So the dragonstones could all fall off and break, for all that he cared about them and Cordelia.

Gareth clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head and reaching for his surcoat: an orb made of emerald, fitting perfectly in the center of his palm -- he reached for one of the dragonstones. He kneeled in front of Therion, and gave him a tender smile.

“‘Tis the same color of your eyes,” Gareth said, closing Therion’s fingers around it and oh, how his hand felt warm and soft around them. “My friend, I beg of you… do not give up on yourself so easily, just how you didn’t gave up on me.”

“I’m not giving up,” he assured Gareth, rubbing his thumb against his hand in a circle. “I’m just… trying to do the right thing.”

“I’m glad, then,” the man said, separating their hands and standing up, leaving Therion with the stone in his hand. It glittered like a tiny million stars, and for the first time in his life, maybe he could see the beauty in such thing. “Now, then, shall we head to the tavern? I believe some mulled wine is in order.”

“And fall into the claws of a worried Alfyn?” Therion asked with a smirk on his face. “Sorry, I would rather fight you again, it’s likely to be easier.”

Laugh shook the entirety of Gareth’s body, smooth, deep and pleasing; he struggled to contain his giggles, and it was -- what was the word he used again -- ah, yes. _Adorable._

Not that Therion said it outloud. He wasn’t that mean.

“Honestly, to fall asleep in a place like this…” Gareth complained, extending his hand to him -- the same gesture he did way back then, in Wellspring, when they were bloodied and broken. “Shall we go, my friend?”

Therion didn’t think twice about taking it.


	2. Noblecourt, after a brief respite

Noblecourt was a strange town.

Northreach was similar to Bolderfall, deep down: kingdoms of thieves, ruled and leveled by the whims of its kings. But where Cordelia ruled from high above, paying no mind to the thieves that flooded her town, Darius ruled with an iron fist from his dark underbelly, seeking no less than absolute control over it.

They were similar, opposites, mirrors. In the end, they were the same, across the mountains or atop the deepest of canyons.

Not Noblecourt.

Noblecourt was a gilded town, where the nobles of Atlasdam kept their summer villas away from the stench of its ports and the real politics got made -- it was a city of nobility, culture, art and science, and most important, it was a city that kept its poor away. Instead, the lower class consisted of those better off, families who had served its lords for generations, alongside the occasional scholar who profited from the noble patrons.

And oh, how Therion _despised_ that place.

Yet he somehow still found himself attracted to it even under the moonlight, to its marble streets and tall gates, making rounds across the town without a thought in mind. How many riches were hidden within those places? How many dirty secrets were kept behind closed doors? Alas, it was not his place to tell; in time, he found himself by the almost deserted beach, his only company being the sea and the man in the black linen dress.

“Gareth.”

The thief twirled on his heel, finding himself face to face with Therion and oh, _oh no,_ he looked stunning under the full moon, his dark hair shining silver and deep shadows projecting on his face, accentuating his tall cheekbones and bright blue eyes that shimmered like jewels. Sapphire met emerald and the man smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“Isn’t it too late to be out and about, my friend?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

The thief laughed, hiding his face behind a dainty hand. “Oh, well…” He shook his head, waiting for Therion to join him and looking back towards the sea. “I was born by the Verdant Deep, in the Woodlands. And even now… the sea calls for me. It feels like _home.”_

“You were awfully far from home in Northreach, then,” Therion noted, dragging his feet faster so he could stand on Gareth’s warmth. The man at his side hummed, deep in thought.

“I was,” he replied, curtly and melancholic. “But the drug trade dried up three years ago, and there was nowhere an orphan could go save follow Lord Darius. And so, I went north.” Gareth’s fists clenched at his side, and it was only then that Therion realized that he was shaking. “I will be back, someday -- to Northreach, to atone for my sins, for those I can yet save. That, I promise you. But until then… will you have me, my dearest?”

_To be a thief is to be a sinner, but there’s no sin in surviving. Such is the contradiction of this world._

He was taken aback by the sudden outburst of emotion. There were too many things Therion wanted to say, but not enough words; so his mouth hung open, and no sound came out. Instead, he grabbed Gareth’s wrist, worming his fingers into his palm, into the space between Gareth’s knuckles and forcing him to relax, allowing for the heat to flow between the two of them, holding his hand in such a feeble way that it meant everything for him.

“Do you even need to ask?” Was his answer.

\---

It was paradoxical, how comforting the click of a door could be.

He spent his childhood picking up locks, and the click of one announced not only his victory, but also the right to survive another day. It was the thrill of the fight, pushing him on and on and on, the devil on his shoulder whispering that they could always go bigger, be better, that they would be the best goddamn pair of tea leaves this world had ever seen -- and him, being a sentimental fool, believed him.

Meanwhile as an adult, he learned to value his privacy to the point of paranoia, always checking over his shoulder and carrying a knife behind his back. The click of a lock meant safety, meant that nobody could hurt him, and so he built his defenses, so he would never be vulnerable again.

But tonight, with Gareth’s hand in his, he could forget about it, at least a little.

He closed the door to his inn room and ignored the key, taking for himself a chair near the locked chest where he kept the Dragonstones while Gareth headed straight for his bed, taking off his boots and throwing them at some forgotten, shadowy corner. 

“Are you tired?” Therion asked, softly, in a low voice, putting away his tools of trade and watching as Gareth’s long eyelashes slowly closed and opened in an almost hypnotic way.

“A little,” the man admitted, suppressing a yawn. “Reminiscing can get exhausting.”

The white haired thief hummed, tapping his fingers against the table in a slow melody, stealing glances of Gareth as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Therion had to admit he was a pretty man: having a face that could be described as both handsome and beautiful, with high cheekbones and a long nose, his black hair fell in curls over his sleeping face, framing it in such a way that you didn’t have the choice to look away and looking stunning against his olive skin, and the thief had no choice but to admit he was thankful he no longer hid his face under a hood.

And there was also those eyes. Eyes Therion could get lost in.

Eyes he knew ever since they first met.

“I still don’t understand why you want to stick around,” he asked, suddenly raising his voice and surprising all including himself. Gareth could have stayed in Northreach, became its new king; he had no qualms with bloodshed, and his single-minded determination surely fit the part, so _why?_ Why would he--

The man gave him a lazy smile, turning on the bed in order to face him, and that was enough to make Therion stop breathing. “Would you believe if I said if I was in love with you?”

“I…”

Gareth giggled. “I jest, I jest. But you’re a genuinely interesting man, Therion,” he told him, occupying his hands by playing with the blankets on the bed. “Interesting enough to make me want to see what you shall do next. Will you accept the fate imposed upon you, I wonder? Or challenge it…”

The thief cut himself off, looking lost in thought. One more time, he opened his mouth to speak, but Therion couldn’t hear the words he said -- instead, he turned around and enveloped himself with blankets, and the next thing that the white haired man heard was his soft snoring.

“Gareth?!” Therion called, surprised. Then, he shook his head, throwing his hands in the air. “Asshole, falling asleep on me! Fine! Fine!” He exclaimed in false contempt. “I will take the floor, whatever!”

He got off his chair and ruffled Gareth’s hair, receiving an annoyed moan in response. It was alright; Therion was used to it. Even through his travels, with the likes of Tressa and Primrose to keep them afloat, it didn’t stop him from having to share rooms or camping. It was not like one night in the floor would break his back.

And yet, sleep didn’t come easy to him that night.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank VacuumTan for the inspiration to write this! If you're into Persona 2, go read her fic, it's good.
> 
> Find me on twitter: https://twitter.com/21stcenturyher0


End file.
